


conscience

by Lethildiren



Series: buttercup [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Divergence, LOVE Versus Love, Mental Illness, Multi, POV Second Person, Self-Hatred, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 15:32:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15099695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lethildiren/pseuds/Lethildiren
Summary: It's not long now.(or: Chara meets their brother again.)





	1. you cried out for death

**Author's Note:**

> (Full Author's Notes can be found at the end of the second chapter, which will be uploaded the day after this story is initially published.)
> 
> In _UNDERTALE_ , the player is a subtle driving force to the story, guiding Frisk through the Underground — or giving Chara an example to follow. But there is no player to be seen (or so it appears) in _Buttercup_ 's version of the story. The events bridging the Genocide Run and the True Pacifist Ending, then, must change accordingly. Is someone like Chara, loyal as they are to the people they love, truly capable of genocide without exterior influence?
> 
> No.
> 
> No, they aren't.
> 
> They're not prepared to handle the last hurdle. They never will be.
> 
> Here is how it ends.

New Home is silent.

Flowey has fled.

You do not care to pursue him.

_ I'm tired, _ Frisk confesses.  _ I hate that we can't rest. _ They are not wrong. Their breathing is heavy. Their hands are clammy, their grip slack around the frying pan that had served them so efficiently thus far. You know this… routine. You will not need to use it again.

At the reminder, Frisk permits the handle of the pan. To slip between your fingers. It lands upon the wooden floor with a loud  _ clang. _ “Not long now,” you mutter. Your partner hums in agreement. Weakly. 

You inhale sharply, and gently open the door to your bedroom.

There are the boxes.

You crouch down beside the presents, tearing into them immediately. Your shaking hands fumble with the bow. The paper rends easily. When your jagged nails dig into it.

The box opens, and your hands fall limp.

You know this knife. You  _ know this knife. _

Slowly. Disbelieving. You reach into the box, and lift the knife. It is rusty; its blade is stained with blood spatter. Human blood. The handle does not fit your hand anymore. It will be inefficient. But…

“It's about time,” you breathe.

Asgore would never provide this to you. Not now, nor ever before. Why is it here? Frisk reaches the conclusion first. You recall, momentarily, the flower’s monologue, and the knife slips from your fingers. Clatters on the inside of the box.  _ Asriel. He truly is… that creature. Truly. I… no. No, no, no. _ What? No.

It's not possible.

He had been lying.

You will kill him for this.

You retrieve the knife. You drag the blade across your forefinger, and do not react at all. As the freshly-sharpened blade pierces skin. Frisk whimpers, softly. You know it is from your own… emotions. Not the pain. You feel  _ nothing, _ now. It is, simply, that you want to kill him.

You want to kill  _ him. _ (It's not him.)

And they are afraid. Enough to voice it aloud. You… you're scaring them. That cannot continue.

You shove the knife into your pocket, forcing the thoughts from your mind. “Enough. There's one more, and then we leave.” You move to the other box, and open it hastily. You see a glint of gold, and the words _ Best Friends Forever _ engraved into gold.

…

No.

No…

“How.” Your fingers curl around the Locket; your hand clenches into a fist. “How…” You are shaking terribly now. _ (This was buried with you, _ a voice in your mind realizes. You do not recognize it… from your waking life.  _ And now it is here. Who could have known to recover it, I wonder?) _

You let out a frenzied howl and swing. The Locket flies from your hand. Across the room. It slams into the wall, and does not break. It clatters on the floor. Still visible. The Delta Rune shines upon it, engraved into the metal with the precision only magic can provide.

Frisk tugs you back, gently. You startle, it is inarguable. Their resolve has recovered before yours. You would have found the idea… laughable, previously. But now… you know what it implicates. You find yourself feeling a strange sort of satisfaction.

Frisk remembers the emotion just enough to tell you it is  _ pride. _ And the warmth in your chest is—

A coldness floods you, replacing the faint numbness that had encroached upon your senses as you  _ shared. _ Frisk stands, your body entirely under their dominion. They cross the room swiftly. And take the Locket in one hand. Using both, they place it around your neck. It calls to you, somewhere in your soulless consciousness. Beating like a second heart. It is part of you. As Frisk is. It is  _ more _ than you.

It is the only thing that physically remains now. Of  _ Chara Dreemurr. _

_ Right where it belongs, _ you murmur.  _ With you. _ Frisk’s breathing hitches.

They do not reply.

* * *

 

Sans does not attempt to halt his bleeding with his hand. He simply… allows the blood to run freely across his fingers. Running in rivulets across his palm and through his phalanges. There is a faint, wet slapping as the droplets hit the tile. Slowly. He lifts his hand up to his eyes. Up to the light.

It's not ketchup. The realization does not affect you at all. (You don't care enough to wonder why. You are too tired. A shame you did not rest earlier.)

“heh.” His voice is hollow; his laughter, faint. His grin has twisted into a familiar grimace. His eyes show the most pain of all. You feel nothing; Frisk feels nothing. The skeleton has elicited enough emotion from you both. Now, he shall never do so again. 

“guess that's it, huh?”

He stands. His hand falls limp at his side. A line of blood drips between his teeth. Down his chin. “just… don't say i didn’t warn you.” In this sharp light and deep shadow, he somehow looks worse than you already know he is. He huffs, softly. His breathing is heavier now, and growing shallow. He finds it within himself to shrug. "welp. i'm going to grillby's."

Your eyebrows lift. After all of this… that is it? No final revelation. No speech. Not even… just a joke. A  _ joke. _ Sans—

He steps forward. You tense, but he is merely keeping his word. He shambles past you. Dust hangs in the air behind him. Flaking from his skin with every step. You do not turn to watch him. It's pointless now. Just pointless. He'll be gone soon.

“…papyrus, do you want anything?”

You turn and fling your knife at Sans, wondering why he didn't just  _ step away _ as he always has. It stabs into a pillar. Pinning the skeleton’s empty jacket to the stone. There is no Dust left over. The lingering breeze, the last chill before the Underground’s “sunlight” fades, has dispersed him as if he had never existed. All that remains is blood. As if…

As if you had finally claimed a second victim. As if you'd… he was…

There is a pause. Frisk huffs at your internal dubiety, stepping forward to rip the knife back out of the pillar. It leaves a deep cut.

You know the way to Asgore’s throne from here. Both of you do.

* * *

 

Asgore recognizes you when you finally face him.

He recognizes  _ you. _

“Ch— Chara?” His voice is heavy, laden with exhaustion and disbelief. He does not have it in him to lift his voice beyond a murmur, here. But a murmur is all he needs. “My… my child…”

Frisk halts. Considers the man. You understand Asgore, in ways they do not. He will misinterpret the stare of a killer for the look of a child who's crawled up from their own grave. He will… attempt to comfort them. And Frisk will run them through.

Asgore steps forward, reaching out. Frisk does not move as he wraps his arms around them. When he has ceased movement. They reach for the knife. “I… never thought you would return…” His voice is distant. You cannot tell if it is because  _ you _ are, or just that he is overwhelmed. “I will never understand why that strange flower told me you were someone to fear.”

Realization hits you, with force reminiscent of a bullet to the chest. Asgore's voice is heavy with  _ resignation. _ He is… deluding himself. He does not want to survive his kingdom. Not when he has already been forced. To bury his own children. Perhaps he truly does see you here… or perhaps he's simply hoping to make himself believe his own words.

You choose to give him your final regards. A last gift. It will be as terrible as your previous one had been. Neither of you care. “I returned to set you free,” you whisper. Asgore's eyes widen infinitesimally. You know he recognizes your cadence. “And I have done that now.”

You jam the blade through his chestplate, and into his heart. He gasps. For just a moment. Recognition, true recognition, flickers in his eyes. He lowers to his knees, and you step back. “A-ah…” He gasps out a laugh. “So you  _ were _ the Angel… all along.”

Your father closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

He shudders violently, suddenly, and groans in pain. A sound like glass cracking reaches your ears, faintly. A ring of silver pellets materializes in the air, and your eyes widen.  _ No. No, you idiot.  _ **_No!_ **

Asgore’s SOUL splinters, and the wind blows his Dust away.

Flowey grins at you sheepishly from behind where the King had knelt. “T-there we are! It— it was just a trick, see? I, I never betrayed you at all!” He babbles on, as you stare into the distance. Your gaze is fixed on Asgore. Asgore does not exist anymore. He was  _ yours. _ He… you…

Frisk’s apathy dwarfs your rage. You would cleave him to pieces now, if only you were alone. The glare you give him instead is still more wrathful than any that Asriel had ever received. Flowey visibly withers, realizing what is to come. His rambling trails off.

Your grip tightens around the knife. “Please,” Flowey says, quietly, and you pause. Is… he? “P-please don't kill me.”

Your grip slackens.

Asriel stares at you in horror and fear. His eyes are wet. His form, pitiful as it is now. Is shivering violently. Flowey has shattered under strain; and beneath the cruelty is only a young boy, paralyzed by terror.

Afraid to die.

_ No, _ you say, softly. You feel something building within yourself. It is not an illness. It is not a feeling you recognize. Frisk can name it— but  _ they aren't allowed to speak now. _ They recoil from your cold refusal, confused and betrayed.  _ Not like this. _

You reach up and remove the Locket. Asriel cracks open an eye, bewildered by his own survival.

The golden heart clatters on the stone floor of the cave. The locket isn't yours now. It will not be yours again.  _ Chara Dreemurr _ is dead: slain by their own weakness. Their own mistakes.

You're such a goddamn hypocrite.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” you say, softly. Your flesh is melting. Your skin peels away at your touch, but you feel no pain. Sludge drips down to replace it. Asriel stares at you, perfectly captured in the _ deer-in-headlights _ mindset. ‘Do I run?’ ‘Do I stay?’

He cannot see you fall apart. It is in your head. Perhaps you can blink once, and find yourself sobbing instead. But it is clear as day nonetheless.  _ Chara, _ Frisk says.  _ We're… why? We're so close… _

And that's why this must end. That is why you need to go back.  _ (They won’t let you.) _

“I love you,” you tell the flower. _ I love you, _ you tell your partner, and it is as sincere as it has ever been. You shall not ignore it any longer.  _ I'm sorry. _ Asriel opens his mouth to speak. Frisk gives you the briefest sensation of utter bewilderment. And you attack.

Frisk’s throat splits open. Dull shock ripples through your mind, as blood spurts from their neck. The carotid artery on either side of their neck has been cut. You trust yourself enough to know that. With certainty. It's not long, now. Frisk feels more furious than you have in a century. Just like you did, once. Betrayed. But it's fading now.

The knife slips from their numb fingers. Asriel moves his mouth. You do not hear words; he is mouthing your name.

Frisk’s legs give way. They collapse. It becomes clear that your hearing has failed you, when you do not hear a  _ crack _ as their head hits the stone. When Asriel begins screaming in silence. Frisk whispers incoherently in your mind. Their fury has given way to… fear.  _ It wasn't supposed to be like this… _

They, too, fade in time. There is nothing to say. Or… you are in control. You are the primary mind, here. They have died first.

You are alone.

You are dying.

Asriel realizes there is no hope. Blood pools around Frisk’s head. You feel it under their neck. In their hair. Gurgling in their throat, as their body subconsciously gasps for air. He wraps two vines around their limp body, like arms, and buries his face in their chest. You cannot hear him sob.

You feel nothing.

Your self is draining out with your blood. Your brain is failing you, you realize, before you find you cannot recall what that meant at all. The flower shivered. You feel numb. Vision blurred. Fading entirely. You…

 

 

You are nothing.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


CRACK

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

* * *

You wake in a bed of golden flowers.

Frisk is sobbing.

When you try to comfort them, you discover that you are, too.

You do not get up for a very long time.


	2. addendum: i'll meet you below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time that you came home. _All_ of you.
> 
> (or: an eternity after the fact, Flowey and Chara have a heart-to-heart.)

Frisk is going up to the mountain. Again.

It is a favored pastime of theirs; to search the minute crevices of the caverns for oblivious Monsters. Occasionally, a dog is met. You are fond of those moments. (But you don't know why it has not left the mountain yet.) But when they do not occur. It is so very boring, now.

They do it anyway. A familiar path. The one you  _ both _ walked. A stairway has been erected. Steel steps and steel bannisters. Allow for you to descend into the depths without falling again. Now, at this hour. The Underground and its surrounding mountain… are silent. All the two of you have is the heavy  _ clang _ of your partner’s boots on the stairs.

…

Your grave has been marked.

It makes you feel strange, merely thinking of it. A gravestone. Simple gray rock, hewn from the cavern wall. A single candle, burning eternally, illuminates it. It reads:

**HERE LIES CHARA DREEMURR — 2008-2019**

**BELOVED CHILD AND LOYAL SIBLING**

The scent of golden flowers drowns out the hint of rosemary you had so hoped to smell. It would have helped. You don't know why.

The one who placed the gravestone… did not comment on your parentage. Nor your actions. Your appearance, in any sense of the word. Not even your destiny. Simply…  _ beloved child. Loyal sibling. _ Beloved. Beloved…

“It's true,” Frisk mumbles. You huff, shaking yourself. It is inarguable. Frisk’s word is inarguable. You submit to their decision, their impulsive reassurance. They say you are beloved, were beloved (will be beloved?) and you do not desire to argue. Frisk places a single red flower, a  _ nasturtium, _ upon the golden flowerbed. It had been your favorite, they recall. They brought it for you.

You find yourself relieved, of all things, to see that they did not choose a yellow one. Frisk laughs, softly. You feel warm.

“What's the point of putting flowers on the grave of someone you've never met?” Frisk stiffens. Their heartbeat quickens, intensifies. For a moment, it thumps uncomfortably in their chest. They turn.  _ Flowey. _ He looks… odd. As if he cannot settle on an emotion to express. You recognize the way his brows furrow, and it makes you  _ angry. _

You had not seen him since  _ the Barrier. _ You had hoped. That you would not  _ have _ to. Asriel…

Frisk speaks first. Wisely. “They deserve respect. They… went through a lot.” The floral beast’s brows lift. He mouths the word to himself.  _ ‘Respect.’ _ You prod them, gently. They bite their lip. Hesitate. “And I think they'd be sick of seeing golden flowers by now.”

He scoffs, looking faintly bemused. Frisk steps aside, and you inhale sharply. Perception. Tactility. Even thermoception, and the faint chill in the air with it. Every sense becomes  _ more. _ You stare for a moment, closing your eyes. Adjusting to your new flesh. “Nasturtiums are a favorite,” you offer, and open your eyes. Flowey has gone very still. You meet his gaze, and his eyes widen almost comically. “And… Frisk and I are inseparable, now. It is the least they can do.”

There is a pause. Flowey opens his mouth to speak. Closes it again. Swallows. When he does speak, his voice is very small. “Chara?”

You smile. It's a real smile, for once. A good one. “Asriel.” He flinches, and you crouch down, watching him more closely. _ He could run at any moment, _ Frisk warns. You sigh, and note that  _ I don't care. _ “You are still Asriel. Do not attempt to make implications of the contrary.”

His mouth shuts with a quiet click. His lip is quivering. After a moment, he shakes his head. “I… no. No, you're wrong. Asriel has a  _ SOUL. _ I don't. I… can't.” You frown. Asriel… you remember his face on the flower’s malleable flesh, and exhale softly through your teeth. The last time he had contradicted that statement, he had watched you die.

_ Asriel _ had watched you die.

In one swift motion, his worldview had shattered. Or had it been Asriel’s remanifestation that broke him… it is irrelevant. You can surmise what occurred after that. Asriel,  _ Flowey, _ is good at lying to himself. Too good. To his personal detriment.

“That's a lie,” you observe. He blinks. “Asriel has existed within you without a SOUL. And we have both seen it.” He looks utterly confused. As expected. You take a step forward. “Asriel. Do you not remember? Have you forced yourself to forget?” His face twists in confusion with every syllable. You lean in close, and he flinches. “Remember.  _ Remember.” _

There is a pause. “I love you,” you say, and… wonder fills his face. He looks into your eyes for a long moment. Drinking the sight in. And then horror overtakes him, and he whimpers.

“Chara,” he breathes.  _ “Chara!” _ Were it truly… Asriel. In shape, as well as mind. He'd be sobbing into your shoulder now. You know this. As it is, he merely sniffles, shaking himself. “It's really you? But… I… you…” His gaze is fixed upon your neck. It aches with a phantom wound. A death, never to be forgotten. Eternal proof that  _ even if no one else does,  _ I  _ will remember. _

“We have made mistakes,” you intone, softly. You reach out. He does not flinch. “Both of us have. And we have done so…  _ together, _ as well. Not simply alone. But now. We can make amends. Don't you see?” You trace the path of a single tear with one finger, and then gently push his chin upwards so that he looks up at you. You know it's the sort of action that will… get to him. It always had, with your brother. “We are not as we were. But… I cannot object to my own differences. In time, you might come to terms with your own, too. But… you must  _ accept _ it, first.”

You lean in closer. His gaze trembles, but he never breaks eye contact completely. You whisper to him: “Who  _ are _ you, inside of that little plant?”

There is a long pause. You shift, standing up straight. Flowey stares. Unblinking. And then he smiles, and shakes his head, and Frisk’s heart skips a beat. “Not Asriel,” he says. “Asriel’s gone. But Chara is too, and you still call yourself that. I…” He sighs, with a familiar, fond… exasperation. “You're weird, you know that? I… won't call myself that. Not yet. But, maybe, one day…”

His head bobs up. Down. You mirror the motion. “If it could happen before, I'm willing to try and get it again,” Asriel tells you. His eyes, dark and beady and tinged an impossibly faint green as they are, glisten with unshed tears. “I love you too,” he says, finally.  _ Finally. _

Your lip is quivering. Why is… are you  _ crying. _ Frisk? No, they're silent. Your partner refuses to interrupt. This is…

“It's so good to finally have you back,” you mumble. Then you sink to your knees. Give in to impulse. To emotion. To nostalgia. Asriel is wearing his face, his fur, if only on the most minuscule of surfaces. You miss that sensation so _ much. _ You hug the flower, gently, wrapping your arms around his stem and pressing your forehead to his own. It is so undeniably awkward. And yet… he reaches up, with two smooth vines, and returns it. And then he begins to cry.

It is time that you came home.  _ All _ of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this rather spontaneously in the middle of the night about a week ago. It snowballed from there, and I'm not quite sure what to think about it.
> 
> I'm not complaining, however.
> 
> Aaanyway...
> 
> Flowey seemingly forgetting his near demise at your hands if you reset at the very end of a Genocide Run never really bugged me that much. Much like Chara's suicide at the end of the previous chapter, I could imagine the direction all of it took from the start. Everyone always writes Flowey as coming back up to the Surface with Frisk for simple reasons, like getting to meet Chara again, getting feelsed into it by Frisk, or just plain getting hounded into doing it by **DETERMINATION** (and a lot of repeated visits). But... that doesn't fit as well to me.
> 
> I chose to tie the two events together. Flowey _knows_ he can be Asriel-- he has been before. He tried to forget, certainly, but Chara's too stubborn to let that stick. And, so... he comes home in hopes of getting that back. Even if he can't physically be Asriel again, he can regain some of what he lost.
> 
> That's why he comes back-- that's why he decides he _can._
> 
> Because, one way or another... there's still a reason to try.
> 
> That is how it ends.


End file.
